Summer Evenings

Summer evenings are what I remember best.
Six o'clock dinners, still light outside
Mosquitoes and flies, strawberries eaten on the porch.
She'd take me swimming as soon as the plates were cleared,
I had gotten on my swimming suit and grabbed a towel.

And then, I'd swim.
No one else would be at the pool.
And I'd be alone, swimming as the sun
set and the stars began to come out.
I'd spend hours with the water,
Just me, my wrinkled toes, and my thoughts.

The lifegaurds would hardly watch me.
After all, I was twelve, could take care of myself
And it was just me in the pool, swimming.
Even if their eyes were on the water,
Their thoughts were not on me.

She wasn't sick, then.
Sometimes she would watch me swim,
Bringing her books and papers with her,
Sitting by the water.

A little before nine o'clock,
Mosquitoes buzzing around the streetlamps,
She'd pick me up, arriving already
With a towel on the seat.

NPR and classical music was our soundtrack
As we drove the familiar streets back home.
I'd take a shower with Johnson and Johnson's No More Tangles,
Then sit at the counter, eating cookies and milk
Watching with her the news and cooking shows.

Nothing could touch me on those warm summer evenings.
Nothing could touch her on those warm summer evenings.
Nothing could touch us.

I'd go to sleep, bathed and clean and drowsy,
Toes wrinkled, thoughts rested, belly full,
Only to wake the next day and live for sunset.

Oh, that it could last.



(c) Kate Finneran 2003





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